“There, hold up,” said Panton, firmly now. “I’ll go this time.”
“Yes, sir, and we’ll go together and take hold of hands,” cried Smith.
“Ay, all on us,” growled Wriggs, “and take hold o’ hands and fetch him out afore we’ve done.”
Drew said nothing, but as Wriggs caught hold of Smith’s hand, he seized Panton’s, and, moved as if by one mind, they stepped quickly forward, feeling at the end of a dozen paces that there was a difference in the air they breathed, which grew thicker as their sight became less clear and their motions more heavy.
But hand clenched hand with more convulsive violence, and in step they kept on till first one and then another reeled and staggered, and it was only by turning suddenly round and stumbling back over their track that they were able to reach the free fresh air before, to a man, they staggered and fell to the ground.
Panton was the first to speak.
“I’d try again,” he groaned, “but I have not the strength.”
“Ay, and I’d go, sir, but it’s as I said!” cried Smith piteously. “Think he can be alive yet?”
“Heaven only knows,” sighed Panton, as he tried to sit up, but sank back again, while Drew turned his face toward them and gazed at his companions with a strangely vacant expression that in its helplessness was pitiful to see.
“Tommy!” gasped Wriggs suddenly, as he lay flat on his face, “hit me, will yer, matey—hit me hard. That there feeling’s come all over me again, and I don’t know what I’m a doing, or what I’m a saying. It’s just as if I’d been struck silly and my legs had run away.”